Scott Lynch's Blog, page 7
September 14, 2011
Nerd, Interrupted (II)
I'm sorry, I've been raked over the coals by anxiety attacks since yesterday and have not yet managed to get poor Violet her update. We'll see if my brain chemistry can settle a bit after sleep.
September 13, 2011
Nerd, Interrupted
Fresh back from a long night of fire stuff... I have to get my Queen of the Iron Sands update posted, but I need to shower and restore my humanity first.
We ran a search for a missing child just as the sun was sinking below the horizon (and found the kid!). But have you ever seen a movie or a TV show that makes it look as though cornfields are nice and silky and soft and you can just rush right through them without any effort? Yeah, that's such crap. When you're stumbling through corn in the dark, corn doesn't play nice.
We ran a search for a missing child just as the sun was sinking below the horizon (and found the kid!). But have you ever seen a movie or a TV show that makes it look as though cornfields are nice and silky and soft and you can just rush right through them without any effort? Yeah, that's such crap. When you're stumbling through corn in the dark, corn doesn't play nice.
September 8, 2011
"The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables."
That's my single favorite phrase in all of Shakespeare, and has been since high school. Seems innocuous, doesn't it? Hamlet, Act I, Scene 2--
HORATIO
My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
HAMLET
I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
HORATIO
Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.
HAMLET
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
It's not one of the big, blazing, famous bits where the actor takes a deep breath and vents their spleen to heaven. Not one of those soliloquies so well known you could parody it on half a second's notice in front of any audience in the world. But god, god it's so elegant. So efficient. So much sentiment, character, and back-story compressed into one thin sentence.
Would it be much improved by turning it into this?
HORATIO
You look angry, Hamlet.
HAMLET
I'm angry that my mother married my uncle so soon after my father passed away!
*****
In Vonda N. McIntyre's mid-80s Star Trek tie-in novel Enterprise: The First Adventure, a 23rd century Shakespeare re-interpreter turns the "To be, or not to be" soliloquy into a plain-speech train wreck that begins: "Should I kill myself, or not?"
When McIntyre did this, it was meant as a joke.
*****
Orson Scott Card was once a writer of clarity, inventiveness, and passion, and while he was occasionally prudish he seemed like a man genuinely attempting to reconcile his personal faith to the evidence of the world around him. These days he seems to have lost all interest in that reconciliation. He's painted himself into an absolutist and authoritarian corner of his faith, and his frothing bigotry has eaten his artistic perspective.
Card's got every right to be a dreary homophobic bigot (though of course he dislikes it when people call him that; he wants to be free to advocate the imposition of hurtful, vicious, and primitive injunctions on the society in which he lives but he is awfully thin-skinned when objections are raised). He's got every right to create and sell dreary homophobic work. The rest of us, in turn, have every right to wish it wasn't so homophobic, or so dreary. And to mock... oh yes, to mock.
I'm pretty much an inclusive absolutist when it comes to re-interpreting Shakespeare. Add, sift, transmute, refine, pervert, and bowdlerize if you will... throw in steampunk robots, change settings, swap character genders, add harsh language, remove sex, add sex, whatever. Shakespeare's work isn't some solemn mausoleum at which we all must pay cold-blooded obedience, it's a playground which we can and must dig up, dirty, and refurbish on a continual basis.
So Card's got every right to tinker with Hamlet to his sad little heart's content. What draws my fierce mockery is that his Hamlet's Father willfully ignores the character and content of the original. The assertion that it reveals "what's really going on" in the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark is a reeking lie. It isn't an elegant interface with Shakespeare's creation, but a complete re-invention of it, steam-cleaned of its original texture and meaning. OSC's sternly moralizing, dull-as-a-brick Hamlet can only be conjured by completely disregarding everything the original character said, thought, and did. Now, if that's what you want to write, go ahead and write it. Just have the honesty to call it what it is... a bloody rewrite. Not an honest engagement with the original text.
As for the language itself... you've simply got to be kidding. From Card:
Horatio brought him his sword. "Laertes is looking for you," he said.
"I don't have time for Laertes. He must know I didn't mean to kill his father," Hamlet said.
"It's not his father," said Horatio. "It's his sister."
"Ophelia? I didn't touch her."
"She killed herself. Walked out into the sea, dressed in her heaviest gown. A funeral gown. Two soldiers went in after her, and a boat was launched, but when they brought her body back, she was dead."
"And for that he wants to kill me?"
Stale as month-old taco chips. Dry of emotion, rhythm, flair. Dead at conception, dead on arrival, dead. It's no crime to not be Shakespeare. . . but to hack up such a soulless paste in lieu of prose? There's less invention and less life in all of Hamlet's Father than there is in a single line from the original. A line about the catering arrangements.
Art doesn't die when artists make mistakes. It dies when they stop trying. In service to his viciousness and self-righteousness, Card has locked himself away from his art.
HORATIO
My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
HAMLET
I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
HORATIO
Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.
HAMLET
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
It's not one of the big, blazing, famous bits where the actor takes a deep breath and vents their spleen to heaven. Not one of those soliloquies so well known you could parody it on half a second's notice in front of any audience in the world. But god, god it's so elegant. So efficient. So much sentiment, character, and back-story compressed into one thin sentence.
Would it be much improved by turning it into this?
HORATIO
You look angry, Hamlet.
HAMLET
I'm angry that my mother married my uncle so soon after my father passed away!
*****
In Vonda N. McIntyre's mid-80s Star Trek tie-in novel Enterprise: The First Adventure, a 23rd century Shakespeare re-interpreter turns the "To be, or not to be" soliloquy into a plain-speech train wreck that begins: "Should I kill myself, or not?"
When McIntyre did this, it was meant as a joke.
*****
Orson Scott Card was once a writer of clarity, inventiveness, and passion, and while he was occasionally prudish he seemed like a man genuinely attempting to reconcile his personal faith to the evidence of the world around him. These days he seems to have lost all interest in that reconciliation. He's painted himself into an absolutist and authoritarian corner of his faith, and his frothing bigotry has eaten his artistic perspective.
Card's got every right to be a dreary homophobic bigot (though of course he dislikes it when people call him that; he wants to be free to advocate the imposition of hurtful, vicious, and primitive injunctions on the society in which he lives but he is awfully thin-skinned when objections are raised). He's got every right to create and sell dreary homophobic work. The rest of us, in turn, have every right to wish it wasn't so homophobic, or so dreary. And to mock... oh yes, to mock.
I'm pretty much an inclusive absolutist when it comes to re-interpreting Shakespeare. Add, sift, transmute, refine, pervert, and bowdlerize if you will... throw in steampunk robots, change settings, swap character genders, add harsh language, remove sex, add sex, whatever. Shakespeare's work isn't some solemn mausoleum at which we all must pay cold-blooded obedience, it's a playground which we can and must dig up, dirty, and refurbish on a continual basis.
So Card's got every right to tinker with Hamlet to his sad little heart's content. What draws my fierce mockery is that his Hamlet's Father willfully ignores the character and content of the original. The assertion that it reveals "what's really going on" in the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark is a reeking lie. It isn't an elegant interface with Shakespeare's creation, but a complete re-invention of it, steam-cleaned of its original texture and meaning. OSC's sternly moralizing, dull-as-a-brick Hamlet can only be conjured by completely disregarding everything the original character said, thought, and did. Now, if that's what you want to write, go ahead and write it. Just have the honesty to call it what it is... a bloody rewrite. Not an honest engagement with the original text.
As for the language itself... you've simply got to be kidding. From Card:
Horatio brought him his sword. "Laertes is looking for you," he said.
"I don't have time for Laertes. He must know I didn't mean to kill his father," Hamlet said.
"It's not his father," said Horatio. "It's his sister."
"Ophelia? I didn't touch her."
"She killed herself. Walked out into the sea, dressed in her heaviest gown. A funeral gown. Two soldiers went in after her, and a boat was launched, but when they brought her body back, she was dead."
"And for that he wants to kill me?"
Stale as month-old taco chips. Dry of emotion, rhythm, flair. Dead at conception, dead on arrival, dead. It's no crime to not be Shakespeare. . . but to hack up such a soulless paste in lieu of prose? There's less invention and less life in all of Hamlet's Father than there is in a single line from the original. A line about the catering arrangements.
Art doesn't die when artists make mistakes. It dies when they stop trying. In service to his viciousness and self-righteousness, Card has locked himself away from his art.
September 7, 2011
Desiccate! ALL! The! Things!
Also, if you haven't already peeked at my ongoing Queen of the Iron Sands project now might be an opportune time, since
A. I've recently cleaned it up and applied some of that stuff called "editing" to it; I haven't had time to thoroughly revise in depth, but I have sanded down some rough edges. Most of these changes, alas, are presently displayed in the RTF version, but I've also just learned some fresh tricks for taking a lot of the work out of the tremendous pain of adjusting the HTML version, which I hope to apply soon.
B. I've finally updated the RTF version to a full-length representation of what's seen in the HTML version. It's something like 42,000 words at the moment.
C. I've got the next chapter, "Fifinella and the Invisible Men," ready to go for next Monday, so even if I collapse into babbling anxiety paralysis you'll get to experience the smooth flow of the serial for at least one week.
D. I'm going to attempt to put the evolving text in assorted epub formats, as practice, for those who prefer using ebook readers to their tawdry old computer screens.
E. I have at last started spelling "desiccator" properly!
A. I've recently cleaned it up and applied some of that stuff called "editing" to it; I haven't had time to thoroughly revise in depth, but I have sanded down some rough edges. Most of these changes, alas, are presently displayed in the RTF version, but I've also just learned some fresh tricks for taking a lot of the work out of the tremendous pain of adjusting the HTML version, which I hope to apply soon.
B. I've finally updated the RTF version to a full-length representation of what's seen in the HTML version. It's something like 42,000 words at the moment.
C. I've got the next chapter, "Fifinella and the Invisible Men," ready to go for next Monday, so even if I collapse into babbling anxiety paralysis you'll get to experience the smooth flow of the serial for at least one week.
D. I'm going to attempt to put the evolving text in assorted epub formats, as practice, for those who prefer using ebook readers to their tawdry old computer screens.
E. I have at last started spelling "desiccator" properly!
Doin' the Time Warp
Gollancz (my UK publishing imprint) is celebrating its 50th anniversary as a SF/F list this year, and over the summer held a contest soliciting reader votes for ten favorite titles from the past and present. These books were done up in special value hardcover editions with fresh introductions and authentically retro 1961-style trade dress.
The Lies of Locke Lamora was one of the lucky ten, so it's been given the can't-miss-it-at-any-distance treatment. A gun was held to Joe Abercrombie's head until he coughed up a suitably flattering intro, someone turned the knob on the banana machine up to '11', and here you have it:
If you're looking for a nice sturdy replacement for that trade paperback you've nearly turned to pulp with the fall of your salt tears, now's your chance!
If you're looking for one online it can be a little difficult to sort out from all the other editions. UK readers can find them at:
Amazon.co.uk
Waterstones
Blackwell's
WHSmith
Foyles
The Lies of Locke Lamora was one of the lucky ten, so it's been given the can't-miss-it-at-any-distance treatment. A gun was held to Joe Abercrombie's head until he coughed up a suitably flattering intro, someone turned the knob on the banana machine up to '11', and here you have it:
If you're looking for a nice sturdy replacement for that trade paperback you've nearly turned to pulp with the fall of your salt tears, now's your chance!
If you're looking for one online it can be a little difficult to sort out from all the other editions. UK readers can find them at:
Amazon.co.uk
Waterstones
Blackwell's
WHSmith
Foyles
"Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd..."
By now, much of the internet that lives in the actual 21st century has pilloried the bejeezus out of Orson Scott Card's "revelatory version" of Hamlet. Now, now, I can't help but feel that there might be some hidden genius in this notion of squeezing out all the hard words, tossing out all the actual characterization from the original plays, and substituting moral conclusions totally divorced from the tone, temper, and context of what our buddy Bill "Plastic Man" Shakespeare mistakenly thought he was driving at.
As I threatened on Twitter, I would therefore like to present excerpts from my forthcoming re-interpreted masterpiece...
THE SO MUCH LESS GAY
and
NOT WRITTEN WITH GAY BIG WORDS
version of
THE CRONICLE HISTORY OF HENRY THE FIFTH
formerly by William Shakespeare
Thrill to the scintillating betrayal scene...
Henry walked into the council chamber.
"We're totally going to beat the French," said Henry. "You guys think so too, right?"
Everyone did.
"I really think we're going to beat the French, if we try hard," said Lord Scroop.
"That's great," said Henry. "Here, Scroop, I've written some special new orders for you."
Scroop read the orders.
"Oh no," he said. "This says that you figured out that I'm a traitor!"
"Yes," said Henry. "They were trick orders. You are a traitor, and it makes me really sad. We've known each other for so long."
All of King Henry's loyal nobles thought this was sad, too. They helped put Lord Scroop in irons, and he was taken away.
"That was close," said Harry. "We owe God big time for warning us about that guy. Now we can all get on boats and go to France!"
Weep at the heartbreaking death of Falstaff...
"Please help my master," said the boy. "He is so ill he can't even hold up his old issues of Diva to read them any more!"
"That's sad," said Mrs. Pistol. "The king has broken his heart. But Falstaff deserves it for the choices he's made."
"Yes," said the boy. "It is sad, but the king has done the right thing and left him to die alone and go to hell for all of his sins."
"Hello everyone," said Corporal Nym. "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Pistol. Does anyone want to play cards while we wait to get on boats and go to France?"
"No, thank you," said Mr. Pistol. "Playing cards is wrong."
"You're right," said Corporal Nym. "I have wasted my life playing cards. I'm glad I realized this before I was tricked into even worse things, like in bath houses."
Stir to the adrenaline-fueled Agincourt speech...
Westomoreland stared at the big army of the French.
"The French army is so big," said Westmoreland. "I wish we had more guys."
"Who says we need more guys?" shouted King Henry as he rode up. "I've thought really hard about this. The less of us there are, the better it is for us!"
"I'm not sure it works that way, my liege," said Westmoreland.
"Really? I don't know," said Henry. "Sounds good to me. Maybe I'm sleepy! I spent all night wandering around the camp LARPing."
"Reinforcements would be really nice," said Westomoreland.
"What are you, Westmoreland, a homo?" shouted Henry. "We don't need more men to fight the French! This will be like fighting Morrisey's back-up band. And if anyone actually does survive the fight, it'll be great! Think of the stories you can tell! And the scars! Chicks dig scars!"
"We like chicks," yelled every man in Henry's army. "And only from the front, the way god intended!"
"You're totally right, my king!" Westmoreland was really excited now. "I'm really excited now about having less guys than the French!"
To prove his point he drew his sword and killed the man standing to his left.
"That's the spirit!" yelled Henry. "Let's roll!™"
There won't be a dry eye in the house during the wooing scene...
"You're the only woman left in the play that isn't a nurse," said King Henry. "So I'm totally buying you from your dad."
Princess Katharine looked very sad and confused.
"I know I'm covered in mud now, but I can take a bath," said Henry. "Sign here, baby."
Katharine hesitantly made her mark on a parchment, then said something in French-talk.
"Stop right there," said Henry. "You are very pretty, but from now on you must speak English like Jesus did."
*****
EXIT
As I threatened on Twitter, I would therefore like to present excerpts from my forthcoming re-interpreted masterpiece...
THE SO MUCH LESS GAY
and
NOT WRITTEN WITH GAY BIG WORDS
version of
THE CRONICLE HISTORY OF HENRY THE FIFTH
formerly by William Shakespeare
Thrill to the scintillating betrayal scene...
Henry walked into the council chamber.
"We're totally going to beat the French," said Henry. "You guys think so too, right?"
Everyone did.
"I really think we're going to beat the French, if we try hard," said Lord Scroop.
"That's great," said Henry. "Here, Scroop, I've written some special new orders for you."
Scroop read the orders.
"Oh no," he said. "This says that you figured out that I'm a traitor!"
"Yes," said Henry. "They were trick orders. You are a traitor, and it makes me really sad. We've known each other for so long."
All of King Henry's loyal nobles thought this was sad, too. They helped put Lord Scroop in irons, and he was taken away.
"That was close," said Harry. "We owe God big time for warning us about that guy. Now we can all get on boats and go to France!"
Weep at the heartbreaking death of Falstaff...
"Please help my master," said the boy. "He is so ill he can't even hold up his old issues of Diva to read them any more!"
"That's sad," said Mrs. Pistol. "The king has broken his heart. But Falstaff deserves it for the choices he's made."
"Yes," said the boy. "It is sad, but the king has done the right thing and left him to die alone and go to hell for all of his sins."
"Hello everyone," said Corporal Nym. "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Pistol. Does anyone want to play cards while we wait to get on boats and go to France?"
"No, thank you," said Mr. Pistol. "Playing cards is wrong."
"You're right," said Corporal Nym. "I have wasted my life playing cards. I'm glad I realized this before I was tricked into even worse things, like in bath houses."
Stir to the adrenaline-fueled Agincourt speech...
Westomoreland stared at the big army of the French.
"The French army is so big," said Westmoreland. "I wish we had more guys."
"Who says we need more guys?" shouted King Henry as he rode up. "I've thought really hard about this. The less of us there are, the better it is for us!"
"I'm not sure it works that way, my liege," said Westmoreland.
"Really? I don't know," said Henry. "Sounds good to me. Maybe I'm sleepy! I spent all night wandering around the camp LARPing."
"Reinforcements would be really nice," said Westomoreland.
"What are you, Westmoreland, a homo?" shouted Henry. "We don't need more men to fight the French! This will be like fighting Morrisey's back-up band. And if anyone actually does survive the fight, it'll be great! Think of the stories you can tell! And the scars! Chicks dig scars!"
"We like chicks," yelled every man in Henry's army. "And only from the front, the way god intended!"
"You're totally right, my king!" Westmoreland was really excited now. "I'm really excited now about having less guys than the French!"
To prove his point he drew his sword and killed the man standing to his left.
"That's the spirit!" yelled Henry. "Let's roll!™"
There won't be a dry eye in the house during the wooing scene...
"You're the only woman left in the play that isn't a nurse," said King Henry. "So I'm totally buying you from your dad."
Princess Katharine looked very sad and confused.
"I know I'm covered in mud now, but I can take a bath," said Henry. "Sign here, baby."
Katharine hesitantly made her mark on a parchment, then said something in French-talk.
"Stop right there," said Henry. "You are very pretty, but from now on you must speak English like Jesus did."
*****
EXIT
September 6, 2011
Stupid Anxiety! Quit Humping My Leg!
I returned safely from Armadillocon last week, having had a wonderful time. I hung out at fantastically relaxing length with my lovely girlfriend. I discovered the spicy Bloody Mary. I went indoor rock climbing for the first time and found it pretty agreeable. Paolo Bacigalupi nearly killed me deader than French Toast with his Harlan Ellison story. There was a pleasant writers' workshop, interesting programming, and some watery hag turned me into a goddamn toad during a game of TALISMAN.
So, it's been a good year for one little experiment, that of being physically sociable. I've made it out to four cons, and each has been significantly less nerve-wracking than the last. I'm not doing so well on the internet anxiety front. Witness my scattered tweets and my silence here since I got back from Texas. Well, tonight that particular psychological monster gets a cock-punch, and damn the consequences.
By some miracle, I've updated my website, and it's full of stuff! Accurate stuff, even!
I'm going to be continuing my current project of occasionally leaving the house. In fact, I'm kind of hurling myself back into public in a big way over the next fourteen months. So, without further ado, here's the (minimal and subject to additions) rundown on where you can find me:
DEFINITELY NOT FUCKING DEAD TOUR: 2011-12
2011
Viable Paradise (St. Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts) October 9-14
World Fantasy Con (San Diego, California) October 27-30
DaishoCon (Stevens Point, Wisconsin) November 18-20
2012
EPIC ConFusion (Troy, Michigan) January 20-22
WisCon (Madison, Wisconsin) May 25-28
4th St. Fantasy Con (Minneapolis, Minnesota) June 22-24
CONVergence (Bloomington, Minnesota) July 5-8
Readercon (Burlington, Massachusetts) July 12-15
Armadillocon (Austin, Texas) July 27-29
World Fantasy Con (Toronto, Ontario, Canada) November 1-4
Also in contemplation for '12: Minicon (highly likely), Chicago Worldcon (fifty/fifty), and DaishoCon (schedule permitting). Plus other stuff!
So, it's been a good year for one little experiment, that of being physically sociable. I've made it out to four cons, and each has been significantly less nerve-wracking than the last. I'm not doing so well on the internet anxiety front. Witness my scattered tweets and my silence here since I got back from Texas. Well, tonight that particular psychological monster gets a cock-punch, and damn the consequences.
By some miracle, I've updated my website, and it's full of stuff! Accurate stuff, even!
I'm going to be continuing my current project of occasionally leaving the house. In fact, I'm kind of hurling myself back into public in a big way over the next fourteen months. So, without further ado, here's the (minimal and subject to additions) rundown on where you can find me:
DEFINITELY NOT FUCKING DEAD TOUR: 2011-12
2011
Viable Paradise (St. Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts) October 9-14
World Fantasy Con (San Diego, California) October 27-30
DaishoCon (Stevens Point, Wisconsin) November 18-20
2012
EPIC ConFusion (Troy, Michigan) January 20-22
WisCon (Madison, Wisconsin) May 25-28
4th St. Fantasy Con (Minneapolis, Minnesota) June 22-24
CONVergence (Bloomington, Minnesota) July 5-8
Readercon (Burlington, Massachusetts) July 12-15
Armadillocon (Austin, Texas) July 27-29
World Fantasy Con (Toronto, Ontario, Canada) November 1-4
Also in contemplation for '12: Minicon (highly likely), Chicago Worldcon (fifty/fifty), and DaishoCon (schedule permitting). Plus other stuff!
August 25, 2011
Departure
Days without accidentally crushing a pair of glasses: 364
Days without accidentally crushing a pair of glasses: 0
I am the world's least dexterous elf.
And I'm off to Armadillocon until next week. I'd say something about being on your best behavior, readers, and keeping the internet tidy, but that ship has sailed.
Days without accidentally crushing a pair of glasses: 0
I am the world's least dexterous elf.
And I'm off to Armadillocon until next week. I'd say something about being on your best behavior, readers, and keeping the internet tidy, but that ship has sailed.
August 23, 2011
Reducing the Geeks
Sykes and Bear have both opened up about their ongoing fitness and weight-loss regimens, and I figure that's as good a sign as any to punch my shyness in the face and join the chorus.
My situation is remarkably similar to Bear's... after a few years of drifting comfortably away from most exercise and paying attention to what I ate (my fitness hit a sort of peak around late 2004, when I was in training before starting firefighting class), depression and other forms of misery came along to ramp up the self-destructive process.
In the late autumn of 2004, I weighed approximately 205 pounds. In April 2010, when my ex-wife and I separated, I had hit 285. I don't actually have any photos of myself at that weight, because I couldn't bear to take any, for the same reason I couldn't bear to leave the house. Oh, self-loathing! You carousel of wacky hijinks!
Implying a six-year progression doesn't quite capture the truth of what happened; I had gained perhaps thirty pounds by late 2007, but the next fifty came in just a year and a half.
2010 was a pretty awful year for several reasons, but out of that marital GAME OVER screen came a few signs of hope. I pursued actual treatment for depression, and eventually medication. I also began laying siege to my weight with a properly-researched diet and exercise scheme.
So, this happened:
On the left is the me of June 2009, at my youngest brother's wedding (photo by someone in my family). Note the classic Scruffy Temp Goatee, that panic-induced symptom of someone desperately trying to re-inject character into a face that has misplaced all of its angles.
On the right is me in June 2011, at 4th Street Fantasy Con (photo by David Dyer-Bennet). I have donated my double chin to science. My hair has actually lightened a bit from that arcane process called "exposure to the sun."
And that's where I am now, about 210, and more importantly, a great deal stronger and healthier. The 5.3 mile walks that nearly killed me last year are now a routine, six days a week. My blood pressure resembles that of an earth human again. I can do six wide-grip pull-ups at a time, even though I despise the damn things. My once-omnipresent back pain has faded. I fit into my fire gear with room to spare, and no longer feel that I'm speeding toward a heart attack every time I throw it on.
It's not about conforming to the insane standards our society sets for shape and beauty. It's about feeling comfortable in one's own body, about being healthy enough to be mobile and useful in a crisis (in my case, it had reached the point where I had only two real choices, get back in shape or immediately quit firefighting). It's about managing sugar and junk intake so that it becomes something to savor rather than something to shovel down without pleasure or consideration. It's about keeping depression in check, and recognizing that comfort eating has nothing to do with delicious food and everything to do with that goddamn demon at the back of your brain.
The plan has been boring, tedious, and occasionally painful. I keep a food diary, tracking calorie and protein totals as obsessively as possible. To say that I've ramped up my exercise is an understatement. I have barely touched alcohol away from conventions and special occasions. Sugary soda is something I have once every few weeks. But it's not so bad... the constant cravings for crazy junk* eventually fade. The sense of relief in my joints at not carrying so many extra pounds of me around is liberating. The ability to run, climb, jump, and bust ass on fire scenes is raw delight, and worth the inevitable aches and sprains.
And while there's nothing in life more important than beating Sam Sykes at everything, I have to admit I'm proud of the little tyke. I'll still give him a wedgie and take his lunch money at WFC, though.
*The occasional cravings never go away, of course. But those can be indulged... the point is not to live like an ascetic, it's to make the balance of your behavior positive enough that you can accept and thoroughly enjoy the occasional indulgence. Especially at conventions.
My situation is remarkably similar to Bear's... after a few years of drifting comfortably away from most exercise and paying attention to what I ate (my fitness hit a sort of peak around late 2004, when I was in training before starting firefighting class), depression and other forms of misery came along to ramp up the self-destructive process.
In the late autumn of 2004, I weighed approximately 205 pounds. In April 2010, when my ex-wife and I separated, I had hit 285. I don't actually have any photos of myself at that weight, because I couldn't bear to take any, for the same reason I couldn't bear to leave the house. Oh, self-loathing! You carousel of wacky hijinks!
Implying a six-year progression doesn't quite capture the truth of what happened; I had gained perhaps thirty pounds by late 2007, but the next fifty came in just a year and a half.
2010 was a pretty awful year for several reasons, but out of that marital GAME OVER screen came a few signs of hope. I pursued actual treatment for depression, and eventually medication. I also began laying siege to my weight with a properly-researched diet and exercise scheme.
So, this happened:
On the left is the me of June 2009, at my youngest brother's wedding (photo by someone in my family). Note the classic Scruffy Temp Goatee, that panic-induced symptom of someone desperately trying to re-inject character into a face that has misplaced all of its angles.
On the right is me in June 2011, at 4th Street Fantasy Con (photo by David Dyer-Bennet). I have donated my double chin to science. My hair has actually lightened a bit from that arcane process called "exposure to the sun."
And that's where I am now, about 210, and more importantly, a great deal stronger and healthier. The 5.3 mile walks that nearly killed me last year are now a routine, six days a week. My blood pressure resembles that of an earth human again. I can do six wide-grip pull-ups at a time, even though I despise the damn things. My once-omnipresent back pain has faded. I fit into my fire gear with room to spare, and no longer feel that I'm speeding toward a heart attack every time I throw it on.
It's not about conforming to the insane standards our society sets for shape and beauty. It's about feeling comfortable in one's own body, about being healthy enough to be mobile and useful in a crisis (in my case, it had reached the point where I had only two real choices, get back in shape or immediately quit firefighting). It's about managing sugar and junk intake so that it becomes something to savor rather than something to shovel down without pleasure or consideration. It's about keeping depression in check, and recognizing that comfort eating has nothing to do with delicious food and everything to do with that goddamn demon at the back of your brain.
The plan has been boring, tedious, and occasionally painful. I keep a food diary, tracking calorie and protein totals as obsessively as possible. To say that I've ramped up my exercise is an understatement. I have barely touched alcohol away from conventions and special occasions. Sugary soda is something I have once every few weeks. But it's not so bad... the constant cravings for crazy junk* eventually fade. The sense of relief in my joints at not carrying so many extra pounds of me around is liberating. The ability to run, climb, jump, and bust ass on fire scenes is raw delight, and worth the inevitable aches and sprains.
And while there's nothing in life more important than beating Sam Sykes at everything, I have to admit I'm proud of the little tyke. I'll still give him a wedgie and take his lunch money at WFC, though.
*The occasional cravings never go away, of course. But those can be indulged... the point is not to live like an ascetic, it's to make the balance of your behavior positive enough that you can accept and thoroughly enjoy the occasional indulgence. Especially at conventions.
Armadillocon: Books
When I did my last signing at Armadillocon in 2009, I had several people asking if I had any on me for sale, to which I had to shake my head like a sad little monkey. Well, this year for the first time ever, I will be bringing along a small selection of books for those that might want 'em. I'll have US paperback and hardcover versions of Red Seas and some UK trade paperback editions of Lies. I could also be convinced to bring one or two from my small supply of the Subterranean Press limited, illustrated editions of either, if I knew someone was genuinely interested in one.
If you'd like to make arrangements or lay claim to one in advance, please feel free to contact me using scott (at symbol) scottlynch.us. And please remember that I'm zipping my suitcase shut around 6 AM CST on Thursday, so if I ain't heard from ya by then, ya takes yer chances.
If you'd like to make arrangements or lay claim to one in advance, please feel free to contact me using scott (at symbol) scottlynch.us. And please remember that I'm zipping my suitcase shut around 6 AM CST on Thursday, so if I ain't heard from ya by then, ya takes yer chances.
